


The road, taken

by RecoveringTheSatellites



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Enchanted Forest AU, F/M, Humor, Slow Burn, Violence, darkness with a happy ending, small moments of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: In the end it's about the roads you did take.Emma and Killian in the Enchanted Forest, stumbling along well outside of canon and inside a different take on their fates.AKA: There are all the other lives Emma and Killian could have led; all the other ways Emma and Killian could possibly have met.And then there is this one.(A little violence and a little darkness and a little humor hopefully go a long way.)





	1. Chapter 1

 

It starts with neither a bang, nor a whimper.  
As is often the case, the things which end up determining our paths are things we don't notice when first we encounter them.  
His case is no different.  
He doesn't notice her at all while the tavern beer flows and the patrons’ spirits climb towards delirium.  
She's just a hand which puts a plate of warm food before him and keeps his tankard filled.

 

After three long months at sea, Killian and his crew had spent an alcohol-soaked week in the bowels of Misthaven harbor before he picked himself up, told his first mate he would look for news of potential future endeavors, and struck inland; leaving his crew blissed out in the beds of various whore houses.  
First rule of lucrative piracy: look for information away from the harbour. Men of the sea and their various harbor counterparts only spin tall tales.  
The real stories are told on dry land.

 

Which is how Killian finds himself at the tavern of a small town two days' ride from Misthaven harbor, eating lamb stew, drinking good ale, and listening to the gossip around him.  
Not noticing the girl who brings his food and refills his beer.  
And also not noticing how the mood in the tavern changes from raucous to dangerous. At least not soon enough.  
When the brawl erupts around him he barely has time to get up and grip the hilt of his sword before the first blow lands on his temple and stuns him where he stands, sword still in its scabbard.

Killian shakes his head.  
Tries to focus his eyes.  
All sounds are muted, blows are falling in slow motion, and his own movements are the slowest motion of all. He sees a blade swing towards him and it's like watching fate itself take a swing at him – he cannot parry, cannot duck in time, just stands there frozen, watching as steel meets his left forearm and _slices._

 _When did he raise his forearm?_  
_Why does he use his arm to deflect a blow? His **arm?**_  
_How is his own sword still stuck in its scabbard?  
_

__

The pain that follows is so sharp it brings him back into the here and now, but too late – he is already stumbling backwards. His left side collides with the wall.  
Pain, again, more pain, exploding.  
Another hand wrapped around another sword hilt swings towards him. Fate is not on his side today.  
And then a small blond shape in a dress pulls him down to the floor as he watches a blade strike the wall -- just where his head had been a moment before.  
Two hands drag him behind the bar, and there is a ripping sound cutting through the noise around him, and something is tied around his arm, so tightly it hurts. More.  
„Stay down“, says a voice in his ear, „follow me.“

__

__

There is nothing to do but crawl towards a back door behind her, and then more pain, and he loses his bearings for a moment.  
When he comes back to himself he is stumbling along a dark alleyway, right arm across the girl's shoulders, one of her hands wrapped around his, her other arm squeezing around his waist.  
Straining under his weight.  
He tries to straighten up and walk under his own power, but it's useless. His legs don't seem to be a part of him. She stops in front of the door to a small hovel, and he hears a key turn. They enter and he barely has time to notice the room – a bed in one corner, what looks like stacks of baskets in another – before she pulls a trap door down from the ceiling and extends the ladder attached to it.  
„Can you climb?“ says her voice. He sways.  
„Please,“ there is a note of panic in it now, „please, you have to climb. I can't carry you up.“

There are so many things he wants to reply to that.  
First and foremost that he has never needed a woman to carry him anywhere, and he is not starting now.  
But it costs too much effort.  
And so he climbs, clumsily pulling himself up with his right arm, because his left arm is useless and also seems to be on fire; and she follows, pushing him the last few feet to lie on the floor of what looks like an attic. An attic with a bed. And lots of space.

„Here,“ says her voice, „up on the bed with you.“  
And the hands pull and push and lever him on top of a mattress.  
The pain explodes again and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and remember to breathe.  
When he opens his eyes again her face is near his own, a pale spot in the darkness, out of focus, disembodied. Fingers stroke gently across his forehead.  
„Lie still,“ she says. „I have to go get bandages, and medicine. I'll be back. You'll be alright. Just don't move.“  
He grits his teeth and concentrates on the gentle touch to his face.  
And then everything goes dark.

 

 

What follows is confusion. A period of time without meaning.  
There is daylight and night.  
He is on his ship, he is on a bed, he is in the woods, surrounded by creaking trees, he is on a cliff overlooking an endless expanse of water and sky.  
He is in the tavern, bleeding out, dying.  
He is listening to unknown noises, to muffled voices.  
There are those arms again, pulling him upright, there is „drink this, please.“  
There is vomit and pain.  
Sweating and freezing.

When he finally opens his eyes again as himself, he is lying on a cot in a mostly empty room. There are no walls to speak of, just the slanted angles of a roof. So it is an attic, then.  
There is a small window at the front end, and long, spare rays of sunshine falling on the foot of his bed.  
Dusk. Or dawn. He cannot tell which.  
His mouth is dry.  
His left arm is bandaged, and the pain is no longer sharp as a razor, but dull, manageable.  
Next to him lies the body of the blond woman, curled up, her back to his side.  
Fast asleep.

As he moves, she stirs and turns around.  
Killian can't help the sharp intake of breath.

The left side of her face is a mass of old bruises, green and yellow, already fading in places. In sharp contrast is her cut eyebrow and a split upper lip, barely crusted over, the scabs fresh. Her eyes are greener than any meadow he's ever wandered, and she smiles and then winces, her eyebrows drawing together.  
A small sound of pain escapes her mouth, but she's already sitting up, examining him.

„How do you feel?“ she says, concern in her eyes. Her hand cups his forehead, feeling for heat. „Thank the stars, you feel cool“, she continues, her brow relaxing. „I think your fever finally broke.“  
She smiles again, smaller this time, and does not wince.  
„You saved my life.“ Killian thinks the words are too small for such a big statement. They should be larger, carry more weight.  
„It seemed like the thing to do at the time.“ Another small grin. Her eyes are clear, unblinking.  
„Why?“  
„Well“, she says and sits up all the way, frowning. She takes a few measured breaths until her expression clears, and he wants to ask her what's wrong, but he needs to know why she saved his life more.  
„You're not from around here“, she continues. „You were just at the tavern, minding your own business. You smiled when I brought you your food, you said thank you. You didn't pull me into your lap to slap my ass and fondle my breasts as if I owed you entertainment.“

So many things are warring in Killian’s brain in response.  
Like the fact that he didn't even notice her. Or the fact that he was definitely not there to mind his own business. Or the fact that the most notorious pirate captain to ever sail the Bone Sea was taken unawares at a bar brawl only to be rescued by a _woman._

__

__

„They do that, you know“, she goes on. „The local muscle. Start fights and then rob foreigners blind in the confusion. Sometimes they maim and kill in the process, they're not picky which as long as their pockets get lined. There were quite a few strangers in the bar that night, but it seems like our local brawlers bit off more than they could chew, because the others turned out to be a group of soldiers on leave.“  
She smirks.  
„They were quite capable of fighting back. The fight got out of hand fast, and I've never seen one so vicious, with blades drawn so early. You were caught in the middle and so I tried to help you.“

 _That's what you get for keeping your head down and not trying to attract attention,_ Killian thinks to himself. If only he'd looked up a few times, instead of listening for stories of lucrative transports. It serves him right, everything that has happened. He cannot afford to slip up like that.  
His crew would have his head.

She nods at him and gets up, her movements careful and strained, like she's hurting.

„Are you in pain, love?“  
At the word 'love' her head whips around and she stares at him, furious, before she blinks and exhales and the left corner of her mouth quirks up.  
„Just bruises“, she says. „Nothing to worry about.“

She comes around to his side of the bed and kneels on the floor beside it, carefully taking his left hand in both of hers.  
„How is your arm?“  
Killian watches her hands wrap around his. He can see it happen.  
He feels – nothing.  
It's like his hand is not there.  
He tries to move his fingers. Three do not respond at all. And his thumb and index finger only give a slight twitch. Killian’s mind goes blank, wiped clean of all thought except one:  
_No. Not this. Please, not this, anything but this._

__

A shrill ringing starts in his ears and his vision blurs.

„Don't panic“, her voice cuts in, and he can feel himself breathing too fast now. He looks up and her green eyes are clear and worried.  
„Try to relax.“  
Her left hand pushes down on his chest, over his galloping heart.  
„Breathe out“, she commands, and he exhales slowly. „Good. Now breathe in.“  
He does.  
„Out again, slowly.“ He complies. She smiles, and then winces.  
„Damn that lip“, she says. „Now in again.“  
This goes on until the ringing in his ears stops, and the grey around his vision clears.  
„Good“, she repeats. „Now please just stay still and I'll be back soon with food and water and clean bandages.“  
He can do nothing but nod.  
„By the way, I'm Emma“, she says.  
By the time he croaks back „Killian“, she's already out of sight, halfway down the trap door ladder.

 

When Emma makes her way slowly back up the ladder, the weight of the basket she has slung around her shoulders makes her side hurt so badly she has trouble breathing. The ladder looks endless.  
When her waist comes level with the attic floor it's all she can do to bend sideways until the basket hits the ground, and then shove it across, slipping out of its strap. She stays where she is for a few long moments, holding her side and trying to inhale. In the end she crawls onto the attic floor on her hands and knees, rolls over in an undignified heap and pulls ladder and trap door back into place without standing up.

There are several more painful exhales before she manages to get up on her knees and look at the man on the bed, watching her.

His eyes are blue.  
His brows are furrowed with concern.  
„Love,“ he says softly, „are your ribs broken?“  
Emma shakes her head. „Bruised,“ she answers. „I don't think they're broken.“  
His eyebrows pull closer together. „You should not be carrying such heavy things,“ he says, but it's a statement, not an accusation. He sighs. „I'm sorry about that.“  
Emma shakes her head again, but only to clear the fuzziness from it. She gets up, gritting her teeth, and pulls the basket over to his bed, sitting down on its edge with a sigh of relief.

„Can you eat?“ she asks.  
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and after a moment he laughs, dry and brittle.  
„Actually, I'm famished“, he says.  
She grins back at him and starts to wrap her arms around his torso to help him sit up, when he catches her wrist.  
„Stop,“ he says. „I can do it myself.“  
And he levers himself up slowly, until his back leans against the headboard, more or less upright.

There is bread and cheese and watered down wine and an absolutely disgusting herbal concoction which Emma insists he drink all at once, to stave off infection. As they eat the room gets brighter and warmer, the sun coming up in earnest. When they're done, Emma looks at him and keeps her voice firm when she tells him that she has to change his bandages. She feels a sting of remorse, watching the apprehension on his face – it's clear that he has put all thoughts of the state of his left arm far from his thoughts.  
There is nothing she can do about it – the dressings have to be changed.

She tries to be gentle.  
Some of the blood has crusted into the bandage and she wets it with water, but it still won't peel off.  
She has to rip it away, and from the way his eyes squeeze shut and his breathing becomes forcefully measured she can tell how much it hurts.  
„I'm really sorry,“ she whispers, as she pulls out a clay pot of ointment.  
„Just get it over with“, he grinds out in response, and she tears the last of the dressings from his arm.  
„Done“, she sighs, and looks at the cut. The skin surrounding it is red, but not hot; there is no inflammation. Emma smooths a generous scoop of ointment across the wound. It's cool against her fingers, she hopes it's just as cool against his skin. She hopes this doesn't hurt.  
She can't look at him as she works, doesn't want to watch his face twist in pain, and concentrates on being as quickly efficient as possible, wrapping his arm back up in clean bandages. 

When she's done she exhales a long breath and finally looks up. His blue eyes are intent on hers and he nods, and she lets her hand run down his arm. Thumb and index finger of his left hand look relaxed and normal, the other three are curled up, unmoving. His eyes never leave her face, and when she starts to rub her thumb across his knuckles, they become shiny and wet.  
„How can I be a captain with just one hand?“ he whispers, and it sounds broken and resigned.  
„I don't think you're the kind of man to let a little thing like that stop you“, she replies, because although she knows nothing about him, she is sure of that.  
Tears start rolling down his cheeks and he looks defeated and utterly exhausted and she remembers that the herbal concoction she procured isn't just to stave off infection, it's also meant to make you sleep. He's drowsy, with all his defenses down, and chances are he won't remember any of this. Emma watches him slide slowly down the headboard until he is once again flat on his back, and she wipes the tears from his cheeks before she can stop herself.

„I know you want to sleep now“, she says, „but there are a few things you have to know, so I need you to listen to me closely for a minute.“  
He nods.  
„It's very important“, she says, and he nods again, his eyes coming back into focus.  
„I have to go downstairs now, and I won't be able to come back up until tomorrow. It is imperative you stay here and be absolutely quiet. Do you understand?“  
He nods again.  
„You will hear voices“, she goes on. „And noises. Especially during the night. Loud noises. Things like screaming and yelling and punching. Do not get up. Do not move, do not make yourself known, not for any reason. Do you understand?“  
Emma's eyes are boring into his, her grip on his shoulders pure iron.  
„Do you understand?“  
There is nothing he can do but acquiesce. And realize she is absolutely magnificent when she's this earnest, this serious.  
„I understand.“  
„Do you promise?“ He has never seen greener eyes than hers, he has never had to give a promise this weighted.  
„I promise.“  
Her grip relaxes, her shoulders drop.  
„Good“, she says. „Thank you. Your life depends on it, you know.“  
She is not joking. She means every word.  
Killian notices his eyes getting heavy, but he sees her holding her side as she gets up, biting her lip as she manouvers the trap door down, extends the ladder and slowly descends.  
He wants to ask whether she is alright, but he falls asleep before he can form the words.

____

 

 

Rough voices wake him.  
The attic is dark now, he must have slept through the day. There is no way to tell what time of night it is; from where he lies he cannot see any stars. It's oddly unsettling, this feeling of timelessness.  
The sounds coming up from below are muffled. There are more than two male voices – loud, boisterous – and a soft female one between them.  
Emma.  
He can make out the tone, but not the words themselves.  
And it feels like his bladder is bursting.  
Moving silently he finds the pitcher of water next to his bed. He drinks it all, empties it in just a few moments, and then uses it to relieve himself.

It goes on for some time, the play of voices below him, and then he hears a door open, and a few of the voices spill out onto the street and become clearer. His window must be cracked open.  
„...and don't exhaust yourself“, one voice booms, laughing. „Remember we leave in the morning.“  
„At dawn“, a second one adds. „Hear me? Dawn.“  
„Get out of here you mangy curs“, a third voice replies, and this one is different. Rough and rolling, less than sober, but unmistakably used to giving orders. This man is in charge.  
„See you at the paddock.“ It's the first voice again, and then he hears footsteps receding and a door being closed. The play of muted voices below him starts up again – a lot from the man, very little from Emma.  
Killian dozes off.

The next sounds that rip him from sleep are very different.  
These are screams. Of pain.  
But they are no ordinary screams, these are made by a mouth that's been bound.  
Killian has gagged enough people, hell, he has spent enough time gagged himself to know exactly what a scream sounds like coming from behind fabric. There is creaking and something that sounds like muted slapping, and moans and grunts and those screams.  
Those screams.  
He is halfway up off the bed when the memory of Emma's eyes rises. The echo of her iron grip digs into his shoulders, pain lances up his injured arm.

 _Do not move._  
_Do not make yourself known. For any reason._  
_Do you promise?_  
_I promise.  
_

__

He sinks back down, helpless, and clutches the blanket in his good fist, listening to Emma's fate.  
It takes a long time for the screams to stop.  
His fist remains clenched the entire time.

 

 

______ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s my first time out, so please bear with me.  
> i really don’t know what i’m doing.


	2. Chapter 2

The front door falls closed with a bang and Emma can’t move.  
Everything. Hurts.  


 

She has to get up.  
She has to go upstairs.  
She has to look after the injured one there.  
But everything. Just hurts.

 

She crawls into the attic what feels like hours later and finds him awake, watching the trap door.  
When she gets to the bed he’s already upright, makes a space for her and pulls her down beside him. He must be feeling better. She definitely isn’t. Sitting down nearly takes her breath away.  
But she bites back the groan threatening to escape and digs into her pockets, pulling out bits and pieces of carelessly wrapped food – some cheese, a hunk of bread, a few carrots. A flask of water.  
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t carry the basket. I hope you’re not too hungry.”  
“Emma.” His voice is soft. She ignores it as she piles the food into his lap, arranges and unwraps and fusses until his hand once again closes around her wrist. His touch is soft, like the first time, when he sat up himself.  
“Emma. Stop.”  
She can’t look at him.  
“Talk to me,” he goes on. “Tell me what happened last night.”  
His fingers rub across her skin. “Tell me.”

She can’t look, she can’t look.  
She could fall into his soft voice and his worried eyes and his gentle touch, and she can’t, she _can’t._  
Her life is not this. It is endurance and perseverance and pain. It is small acts of defiance, it is the constant fight of keeping a semblance of herself intact, it is not the kindness of strangers.  
It was so much easier when he was unconscious.  
She is not prepared for this.  
“Tell me about yourself first”, she mumbles, still looking down. “I never even got your name.”

__

He sighs.  
“Killian Jones at your service, ma’am. Former Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy. Now scourge of the Bone Sea and the harbors around it, boarder of freight ships, ransacker of fortunes, commander of cutthroats, and captain of the Jolly Roger, the finest pirate vessel to ever hoist a skull and crossbones. Currently at the mercy of a kind-hearted bar wench, and very much in her debt.”

__

Emma looks up. She can’t help it.  
His expression is playful, his eyebrows cocked, but his eyes are serious. So very serious. He is telling the truth.  
“So you're a...” Emma can’t finish her sentence. It's too preposterous.  
“Pirate. Aye.” Killian is grinning now, and it's amazing, the change a grin brings to his face. “In the flesh.”  
“What are you doing so far from the ocean?”  
“Prospecting.” He grins again. It makes him look younger.  
“For shipments to pillage and plunder?”  
He nods.

Emma's expression becomes thoughtful. “What about your victims?”  
Killian knows what she's asking. How could he not?  
“I fight my own battles now,” he answers, holding her eyes. There is fear and apprehension in her gaze, and he does not like it.  
“Back in the Navy I fought for many a cause I did not believe in, but I followed my orders. The military metes out its brand of justice indiscriminately. It sees only enemies, and labels them alike; it does not distinguish between the armed and the defenseless. Now that I am free, I fight to keep my freedom, and to make a living. Since becoming a pirate I have never had to take up my sword against an unarmed man. I take neither prisoners nor hostages.”  
Emma is biting her lip and he is running out of ways to tell her that he kills neither for sport nor at random.  
That he has never hurt or maimed or tortured an innocent life since he raised the black flag, never needed to.  
But his life is built out of violence and theft and maybe the absence of malice is not enough.  
“Love,” he sighs, “it is true, I am the villain of many a story.”  
He lifts her chin.  
“But not of this one.”  
Emma nods, and the relief he feels at that should not be as complete as it is. He is leaving pieces of himself in this chance connection, in the life of this woman which has collided with his own, and he doesn't know why.

His hand moves up to her face and his fingertips wander along what’s left of her bruises.  
“I don’t think any of this--” his fingers run lightly across the cut on her eyebrow, the one on her lip—“is the result of that brawl from which you saved me.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “What is this life of yours that does so much damage?”  
Emma cringes, which causes her to gasp in pain, which causes him to take her hand.  
“Tell me, Emma.”  
It’s a long story and she doesn’t want to tell it. She lives it. That’s too much already. But he is looking at her again, this time with so much kindness in his eyes that Emma sighs in defeat. 

“I was married off to pay a gambling debt.”  
Killian's eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. Emma looks away, because she has to get through this if she's going to tell it at all, and get through it fast.  
“My father was a gambler”, she continues, “and not a very good one. Actually, he wasn't my father. No one knows who my parents are, I was found in the woods as a baby.”  
She takes a deep breath. As deep as she can manage without her side exploding.  
“My father owed money to all the wrong people, and one day a whole brute squad came to collect. He couldn't pay them, so he offered - me. Mersalis, their leader, accepted the offer. Took me away on the spot, married me only a few hours later.  
He heads a militia, just a gang of roughnecks spoiling for fights. They ‘control’ the borders, intimidate farmers into paying them protection money, break up rackets, that kind of thing. Well, rackets other than his own of course. He's not exactly a nice man.”

Killian is silent, but his hand tightens around Emma's. 

“He was out east when I brought you here. So I had a few days of peace and quiet." She smirks. "Lucky for you.”  
Another deep breath.  
“He left again this morning. They had reports of trouble at the northern border. It'll take them at least a week just to get there. When he leaves for longer periods of time, he has a very efficient way of keeping me in line.”

Killian's hand is now squeezing hers. Hard.

“I have come to understand the effectiveness of a good beating.” She's matter-of-fact now. No emotion at all.  
“They pretty much keep me inside the house. The neighbors used to complain about the noise, but I’ve also come to appreciate the effectiveness of a good gag.”  
She laughs and the sound is so empty, it’s terrifying. Not even gallows humor remains inside it.  
“Of course it’s a special treat when I haven’t quite healed from the previous installment. I think he really did break my ribs this time.” The last sentence she says to herself. 

She feels empty.  
Empty and used and damaged.  
Dirty, although Mersalis has never touched her sexually. Emma doesn’t think he can. It’s a very small flicker of light in the darkness that is her existence.

Killian folds his fingers between hers, clears his throat several times before he speaks.  
“What about your village?” He asks. His voice sounds scratchy. Emma still can’t look up, stares at their intertwined hands without seeing them.  
“Your friends, your family. Can’t they help?”  
Emma laughs again, that terrifying, joyless, empty laugh.  
“These are not my people, Killian.” She answers. “My village, the one where I grew up, is far away from here. These are his people.” She spits the word 'his' as if it were poison.  
“Still,” she goes on, softer this time, “I have some friends. They do what they can.”  
She’s quiet for a moment.  
“Ruby lets me work at the tavern whenever I can manage. She knows I can’t keep to a schedule, but somehow there’s always a shift open for me.” Emma smiles a faraway smile.  
“Her grandmother is our local healer and she patches me up and gives me supplies and never asks any questions, never wants to be paid. It helps. Gets me out among people. Gives me a chance to make some money of my own.” She laughs again, bitter this time.  
“At the rate my savings are going, I’ll be able to leave about twenty short years from now.” 

__

Killian can no longer stand it.  
He has to see her face.  
His hand slips from her grip and again he lifts her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his.  
It’s important she sees him, for this next part, because he’s about to do something entirely out of character. Something he has not done in a long time, something he thought he’d never be compelled to do again.  
Ever.  
He is going to put the needs of another person above his own.

“Love,” he says, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears, “when I leave here, I want you to come with me. Away from all this.”  
Emma’s face is blank, wiped clean of expression. But her eyes are holding his. It is enough for him, for now.  
It’s surprisingly easy to go on, to take that first step back into territory so long ago left behind.  
Into empathy.  
“You saved my life.” He says into those green, green eyes. “Allow me to return the favor.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't wait to find out what happens next myself.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

„You can't ride, love, not like this.“ Emma's eyes flash in protest.  
He is learning that she can be stubborn. And he's also learning that he’s going insane, because he likes it.  
„Granny can bind my ribs,“ she shoots back. „It won't be that bad.“  
„Emma.“ Killian can't help but smile. „You can't ride, and I can't hold on. We have to walk.“

 

When he had asked her to come with him, she had taken a long time to reply.  
Longer than he thought possible for something she obviously wanted, to what seemed a given.  
She had been silent for many, many long minutes, and then looked up and smiled; bright and sunny and sure. The kind of smile for which men have gone to war.  
They have been planning ever since.  
Without much progress.

 

„Fine.“ She acquiesces. „We'll walk. But it will take a week just to reach Misthaven harbour.“  
„Oh love,“ he says. „We are not going to Misthaven harbour.“  
Emma's face becomes one big question mark, and he has to smile again.  
„We're not going there for several reasons,“ he goes on. „Because it's the first place anyone will come looking for you. And because the Jolly will most likely no longer be there.“  
Emma's eyebrows crinkle in confusion.  
„Granted, the last few days have been somewhat of a blur, but by my count I was due back on deck yesterday. It's not a good plan for a pirate ship to stay docked in a capital port for too long, no matter how much you bribe the harbor master. Smee will have taken her out to sea. We’ll have to catch up with her in the Lagoons.“  
He takes her hand, squeezes in comfort. „Don't worry. It's not the first time I've been late to return. We plan for these contingencies.“  
Emma nods. „Then where are we going?“  
„South to the shore, straight through the forest,“ he answers. „And then east until we can liberate a vessel seaworthy enough to make it to the Windshear Islands. I bet there will be at least one poorly-watched dock with a sloop begging to run free.“

Emma smiles.  
He is in his element, she realizes, a man of action. Lying still, no matter how necessary, must have weighed on the very core of his being. He needs forward momentum like sails need the wind.

„Which brings me to my next question.“ He interrupts her train of thought. „One I've been meaning to ask. I seem to have been stuck in a shift and longjohns for a while now. Where are my clothes?“  
„I had to wash them.“ Emma blushes. „You... they were dirty.“  
She cannot bring herself to tell him that his clothes had been soiled with both refuse and vomit when she peeled them off during his first bout of fever. She doesn't want to think at all about the past few days, because she feels lighter than she has in years, and she wants to hold on to that feeling a little bit longer.  
The darkness will come back soon enough. She doesn't have to invite it in.

“They didn’t look like pirate garb,” she goes on. “Your clothes. They were… ”  
“Normal?”  
Emma nods.  
“Expected black leather and steel buckles, did you?”  
Another blush creeps up her cheeks.  
“Love, there are times when you absolutely want to advertise the fact that you are a pirate,” he says. “For instance, when your ship has pulled alongside a frigate weighed down to the keel with expensive cargo, and you’re ready to enter and pluck her clean.” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows until Emma smiles back. “And then there are times when you absolutely do not want to advertise said fact.”  
“Like when you want to blend in at a mainland tavern and get caught unawares by big men with swords?”  
Killian hasn’t smiled this much in remembered history.  
“Aye, love. Exactly like that.”

 

When she returns with his clothes she moves as if all her joints are out of alignment; pale as a ghost and breathing hard. She sinks down on his bed and hangs her head.  
„You might have been right about the riding,“ she bites out. „But even just walking, I'll be so slow. Especially through the woods.“  
She must be hurting to admit this out loud, to acknowledge defeat in the face of circumstance. There are tears of pure frustration in her eyes, but she’s holding them back with iron resolve. He is starting to get the feeling that along with her stubbornness, her willpower is nothing to scoff at.  
„We have time, Emma. We'll be fine.“  
„Will we? Or will I be too slow?“  
He knows what she's asking.  
„Emma,“ he says, and takes her hand. „I am not leaving you behind. Do you hear me? I said I would take you with me. I will take you with me, as far as you want to go. And if you leave my company, it will be your decision.“  
He won't realize until much later that this is the moment he starts using 'if' instead of 'when'.  
„It would be easier for you without me,“ she says. „Faster. Less complicated.“  
„Oh love,“ he replies, „if I had been looking for a life without complications, I would have stayed in the Navy.“

__

She smiles at last, a wan thing that falls quickly. „I need you to promise me something, Killian.“  
„And what's that?“  
„Don't – when you're done with me, when all this turns out to be more than you bargained for, tell me. Don't just leave, don't– just don't. Tell me. Let me know. I won't stay past my welcome. I won't hold you to an offer you never intended. I'm grateful enough for what you're giving me. Tell me when you are done with me. Promise me.“

He is speechless.  
He does notice that she uses ‘when’ instead of ‘if’.  
In his head are so many things he wants to say, but they can't come up against the ugly truth of the matter: He's a selfish bastard.  
He didn't start out as one. And by all the stars in the sky, he doesn't want to be one now.  
But what if this newfound altruism is merely the remnant of gratitude? What if the Pirate Captain rises the moment he hits the deck of the Jolly, what if he's not strong enough to fight the ways of his past?  
He can't promise her that he won't revert to his old self, can't promise to rip out the roots of his habit of self-preservation. But he can promise her this.  
He can promise her this.  
And so he does.

 

 

„Come here.“ He tucks her into his side, wraps a blanket around them as rain pours buckets across their makeshift shelter.

They had left before dawn and it had taken Emma less than two hours to become convinced that the southern woods were an outpost of hell. They had stumbled through thickets and brush, down what Emma called a ravine, not a slope, and fought their way past a fast-running stream. Killian carrying their supplies and Emma just trying to stay upright.  
And all of it before it had started to rain.

The sky is dark and cloudy and the shelter is barely keeping them dry.  
The thick underbrush helps for a change, after they hacked open a space for themselves; it takes the brunt of the deluge.  
Emma’s head is pillowed on Killian’s chest and his arm rubs her back. She’s warm, pulled against him, inside her cloak and the blanket, and she listens to his heartbeat, steady beneath her ear.

“Relax,” he says quietly into her hair. “Try and sleep.”  
“I don’t know if I can,” she replies. Something has been nagging in the back of her head, and now that they have stopped it’s becoming impossible to ignore.  
“I keep thinking…” Her voice trails off.  
“Keep thinking what, love?”  
“I’m no longer so sure that this was a good idea. For you.”  
She can feel Killian’s breath across her face. “How do you mean?”  
“Taking me with you might prove to be costly. You are making a powerful enemy.”  
“You don’t think I can hold my own against a militia captain?”  
Emma is profoundly glad Killian does not use the word ‘husband’. She has never said it out loud, never referred to Mersalis by anything other than his given name.  
“I think we should not underestimate him,” she says with conviction. “He is not simply a brute. He is cunning and vicious and cruel. Ruthless. Relentless. He will come after me. He will not stop until he finds me. Not even if it takes a lifetime. And he will not care who stands in his way.”  
Killian hears what Emma is not saying: Mersalis will kill him to get to her. With pleasure. With relish. And then punish her within an inch of her life.  
“He is welcome to try,” he whispers into her hair. “But soon you will be on a pirate ship. You can choose to go anywhere in the realm. Or you can choose to keep moving.” It’s as close has he can bring himself to offer her a permanent place on the Jolly.  
He pulls her in closer and she tucks her head under his chin.  
“And don’t worry about me,” he says with confidence. “I am a survivor. I’ve taken on dozens of his ilk. He can bring his worst and I’ll still hang him from the crow’s nest of my ship.”  
He runs his arm down her side, lets it settle on her hip.  
“Now sleep, love. The rest will come in time.”

 

 

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Somewhere in the recesses of a darkened room, a man unearths a locked box from beneath several floorboards. It is made from iron and steel, the surface ornate with strange gilding; there is no key hole. The man pushes parts of the swirled ornamentation in a very particular order, until the lid springs free, and the hinges twist open.  
Inside is a dagger.  
With a satisfied smirk the man picks it up and summons its servant.

„Burning with the desire for revenge are we, dearie?“ He hears the mocking voice before the purple smoke has even cleared. The Dark One stands before him, smiling like a cat in cream.  
„Aaaaaah,“ the Dark One continues after a long hard look at the man before him. „Your lass flew the coop, didn't she. I told you she would.“  
The man's smirk ripples into pure rage.  
„I had her right where I wanted her,“ he hisses. „Right where I wanted her. She was almost ready. She was  
almost mine.“ The way he says 'mine' leaves no question as to his intentions. Darkness and venom flow from the word.  
„I don't think so, dearie“, the Dark One singsongs, pirouetting around the open box on the floor. „I told you when you took her that she was a reed. That she would bend, but never break.“  
The man snorts an exhale like a bull about to charge.  
„Nah-ah-ah!“ The Dark One winks at him. „Don't shoot the messenger. Don't say you weren't warned.“  
„I need her back,“ the man grinds out from between clenched teeth.  
The Dark One grins. „We all need something.“  
„Bring her back. Summon your smoke and drop her here. Now.“ He holds up the dagger.

The Dark One lifts his hand, raising a column of purple smoke. When it clears, the space remains empty.  
„This is interesting,“ the Dark One looks up in surprise. „She is hidden, your lass. By a powerful spell.“ He looks puzzled for a moment. „One even I can't break. Curious.“  
„How is that possible?“ The man erupts like a volcano. „I thought you were omnipotent. I thought the forces of nature itself bowed before you. BRING HER BACK!“  
„No can do!“ The Dark One looks terribly amused. „You will have to go get her the old-fashioned way. With a locator spell.” He twists his hand and a phial appears. “Do you have anything of hers? Anything she left behind? Other than you, _Mersalis?“_

__

The man’s head snaps up at the use of his name, at the tone with which it is said.  
He eyes the Dark One, trying to read his expression, but it is now blank as an unwritten page.  
„I will find something.“ Mersalis snatches the phial from the snarled golden hand, and pockets it. „And I will find her, no thanks to you.“  
„Be careful what you wish for,“ the Dark One smiles. „And ask yourself whether it's wise to insult me.“  
„I have the dagger.“  
„You do. For now.“ The Dark One twirls around the box again; light little dancing steps, perfectly executed. „But I have meanwhile acquired a bargaining chip.“  
Mersalis tries not to flinch and fails miserably. But he keeps his voice steady. „Like what, may I ask?“  
The Dark One bows in mocking deference.  
„Like your real name.“  
The statement hits Mersalis like a slap, and the flinch that follows is hard and fast.  
„Aaaaah,“ says the Dark One with a wink. „I see you're finally paying attention.“

Mersalis' face is a question he can't ask, because it is stuck at the back of his throat.  
The Dark One lifts his hands, twists them in a familiar gesture of exaggerated theatrics. „You are wondering how I found out your real name? Give a man enough motivation and he can do anything, dearie. Especially if he is much, much more than a man.“  
Mersalis attempts a nonchalant shrug, but it looks like a shudder. „What's in a name?“  
The Dark One laughs out loud. „You are going to lecture me on the importance of a name? Me of all people?“  
He laughs again, as Mersalis cringes. „Take the spell, find her. Do what you will. And then someday soon, we will have another conversation. About names and daggers and the meaning of life.“  
He lifts his eyebrows, twists his left hand. The purple smoke rises around him. „Won't we, _Pan.“_

__

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__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought these two deserved a little break. So i gave them one.
> 
> Also, the muse who picked up my tab apparently likes to play in dark corners. She let me have a moment of levity, but she came back at the end, and whacked me over the head in dismay.
> 
> (Do not ask me where that Pan twist came from, because i. Don't. Know. i have no control over this story, i am just along for the ride.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...it occurs to me that i should probably tell you that this will be the last Darkness for a while. My muse and i have had it out, and rearranged out priorities.  
> So for all of you who have stuck with me waiting for a ray of hope, i promise: The Happy is coming up next.

The next day is brutal.

Not even three hours in Emma is fighting to hold on to her sanity. Not to mention her forward momentum. She has stopped thinking, stopped looking, stopped paying attention. Her entire existence comes down to one single task: Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

When Killian stops she runs right into him.  
And takes notice of him for the first time that day.

He looks awful.  
He is leaning against the broad trunk of an oak tree; pale and sweaty and utterly exhausted. The straps from their supply pack are digging grooves into his shoulders. Blood has seeped through his bandages, stains his makeshift sling. He is trying to catch his breath and failing; Emma tries to do the same and doubles over instead.

“What a pair we make,” Killian says, his voice raspy and uneven, but even now Emma can hear the hint of a smile. She doesn’t know how he keeps his sense of humor in the face of all this misery. She has not enough energy left even for frustration, she has not enough breath left for a reply.  
“Love,” Killian wheezes, “I think we have to look for shelter.” He’s watching her efforts to try and straighten up. Unsuccessful efforts. She can only unbend part of the way; and not falling to her knees is the only battle she wins. His eyes are worried and Emma nods.  
“Yes. We do.” She grinds out in puffs.

Killian closes his eyes and forces his breathing to slow. Stands very still for a moment, listening intently. Then he pulls out his compass and checks their heading.  
“There,” he finally says, his voice almost back to normal, “the trees look to be less dense that way. Which is still in our general direction. It’s south enough for us.”  
He points at a patch of forest vaguely to their left.  
Emma thinks the trees look just as dense there as they look everywhere else, but she does not have it in her to say so. She needs all her energy to remain upright. So she nods again. Killian pushes away from the tree and starts walking slowly.  
Emma follows as fast as she can.

 

 

And then they get unbelievably lucky.

They enter a clearing less than half an hour later, and in this clearing stands a hut. A desolate, decrepit, ancient wooden cabin with holes in its walls and a door half off its hinges.  
The entire structure leans hard to the left and looks like a strong wind could blow it apart.  
Killian has never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

They stumble inside, and he lets their pack slide off his shoulders with a sob of relief. Next to him Emma just sinks to her knees, curling forward and clutching her side. Her breath comes in gasps. It sounds like she’s choking.  
He kneels by her side, puts a hand on her shoulder.  
She looks at him, winded. “Just give me a moment,” she hisses. “I’ll be fine.”

Killian looks around.  
As best as he can tell this cabin has never belonged to anyone settled. It looks like transitory shelter – the kind lumberjacks and hunters and the occasional fugitive would use. In one corner is a bed with a mattress of rotting straw, facing him is a hearth which hasn’t seen fire in years. There are still a few logs piled up beside it, dry as tinder with age. The windows are holes covered with thin animal skin, torn and rippling in places, but enough for some light. There’s a weathered table and two crooked chairs, and against the left wall sits a small cast-iron stove. With an actual pipe that extends through the roof.  
It’s perfect.

He gets a fire going in the hearth and pulls the mattress from the bed. It reveals a cot with passable canvas.  
Emma sits up and gives him a tired smile. “This is so much better than nettles and rain.”  
“Aye love, it is.” Smiling back at her is fast becoming his favorite habit. And then he sways.  
She awkwardly rises and takes his arm.  
When she pushes him down on a chair he does not resist.  
His head feels like it’s floating. His limbs are weightless.  
There’s an odd buzzing sound in his ears.  
Emma’s hand is cool on his forehead, and her eyes holding his are so green, so clear.  
He leans forward and touches his lips to hers.

Emma goes completely still.  
She stops breathing.  
His mind catches up to his actions and he pulls back at once, looks at her stunned face, her eyes wide and glassy.  
“I’m so sorry, love.” He has to explain. If this leads to damage he will never forgive himself. “I should not have…”  
“Stop.” She whispers. “Stop. I…”  
Lifetimes pass.  
Then she leans forward slowly, so very slowly, until he can feel her lips on his. They are soft and hesitant and oh so lovely.  
It takes every ounce of his strength not to push, not to open; to let her take the lead. He feels the cut on her lip, she ignores it completely. His hand slides up her neck, cups the back of her head as she slowly explores; and it’s all too much and yet not enough.  
Never enough.  
He was put on this earth to kiss this woman.

She disentangles herself what feels like hours later, and the expression on her face is dazed.  
And happy.  
He realizes that he has not yet seen her happy. And that he wants her to look happy for the rest of her life.  
“Killian.” She says it quietly, not breaking the perfect bubble of this moment around them; and it is the answer to a question he hadn't known how to ask.  
He looks up into her clear green eyes and nods.

She steps away and retrieves a flask from their pack.  
“Drink this,” she says, her voice still barely above a whisper. “You feel warm.”  
Killian actually feels like he’s burning, and that it has nothing to do with his injury. But he complies, swallows Granny’s awful concoction, because somewhere far away his arm is swollen and throbbing.  
Emma spreads her cloak across the canvas of the cot and pulls out their blankets.  
She has to help him stand up.  
Keep him steady for the few steps across the room.  
He sinks down on their makeshift bed with a sigh. His hand wraps gently around her wrist.  
“Lie down with me,” he says and for a moment he’s afraid. That Emma will say no.  
But she smiles. Still looks happy. Worried – but happy.  
Without another word she spreads the blankets and lies down beside him, her face on his chest and her arm across his waist.  
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

 

Killian is a furnace blazing next to her when Emma wakes up.  
His eyes are squeezed shut, his hair is soaked; sweat beads on his forehead. Emma puts out a hand and his cheek is burning. He stirs from her touch and opens his eyes. They are glazed and unfocused. He looks around with a puzzled expression, like he can't place where he is in space and time.

“Killian,” she says, “do you know where you are?”  
It takes him a long time to answer. “Woods?” He croaks. “On the run with you?”  
She sighs with relief. “Killian,” she repeats, “I have to look at your arm.”  
When she peels back the bandage her breath catches. The cut is angry and red and oozing, his arm is swollen, his skin on fire.  
Emma has never before felt so helpless. This is something no ointment can fix.

“Love?” he says and it sounds so far away.  
She looks up. He is is watching her face, back in the present.  
“I don't know what to do.” It's a whisper at most. He smiles at her, and tears spring to her eyes.  
“Don't cry, love.” His good hand comes up, intertwines with hers. “Especially not over a bastard like me.”  
A sobbing laugh escapes Emma's throat, and she squeezes his fingers. “Don't joke, not now. I have to figure out how to fix this.”  
“There's nothing to fix, love. We just have to wait, let it run its course.”  
“No.” She shakes her head in defiance. “There has to be something that I can do.”  
She tries to recall everything Granny ever told her about healing plants, about bringing down fevers, about halting infections. She comes up empty. All she feels are tendrils of panic, wrapping around her racing thoughts.  
Killian smiles at her. His thumb gently rubs the back of her hand.  
“Shhh, love.” He says. “It will be alright.”

It feels like a hand is squeezing her chest.  
She's afraid, so afraid.  
She is helpless, so helpless, so very ill-equipped for this. She realizes that she has no proper skills, no relevant knowledge, nothing to offer.  
Infection and fever are formidable foes. Theirs is a war most do not survive.  
And she needs him to survive.  
She needs him to live.  
_She needs him to live._

__

His thumb is still rubbing across her knuckles, and his eyes are soft, his smile warm and tender. Tears blur her eyes.  
There is panic that rises, and chokes her, and conquers, and she can’t breathe, she can’t think, she can’t –  
she can’t  
_she can’t_

And then it. Just happens.

Golden light bursts from the fingers of her empty right hand and swirls down his arm, and she can feel it pulling  
and pulling  
_and pulling –  
_ until it erupts in a blinding flash.

When she snatches her hand back it reveals perfect skin.  
There's not even a scar.  
She shakes as she hesitantly feels his forehead, and his skin feels cool and dry to her touch.  
There is silence, stunned silence.  
All she can hear is his breath; fast, but even.  
All she can feel is shock. And drain.  
She looks at her hand, but it looks normal. So normal. Common, unspectacular, ordinary. It is callouses and healed scars and skin, just skin.

Killian finally moves to sit up, but his good hand stays in hers, their fingers entwined.  
“Emma,” he whispers. “How in the world did you do that, love?”  
Emma cannot answer him.  
Because she doesn't know.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i guess this is fluff. Ish.  
> (i've never written as much as a kiss. i wrote this at constant war with myself. This one nearly broke me. :-D)
> 
> Also, my muse refused to help me with this. She says she's only responsible for violence and pain.  
> i know i just met her, but i'm thinking we need to talk.


	5. Chapter 5

Four days later they come to the outskirts of a small seaside town.

 

They had spent two more days at the cabin, mostly so Emma could rest.  
During that time they learned several things:  
Emma can’t heal herself.  
What she does feel is better – the cuts and the bruises on her face have vanished. But she can’t make the golden light come back at all. Neither one of them knows what Emma did, or how.  
Killian’s hand is still ruined.  
The last three fingers will not uncurl, and he has no feeling in them at all. Emma is more upset about this than he is.  
Neither one has mentioned the kiss. But they sleep curled together on the cot, and wake up better rested than they ever have before.  
In their lives.

After two days, with their supply of hard tack running dangerously low, they set out through the woods once more. The first day turned out much less exhausting than their journey beforehand, in part because the forest became less dense, and in part because they were both feeling much better.  
They happened upon a road on the morning of the fourth day, and Emma had insisted they take it.  
Killian couldn’t argue.  
It was a deserted road – and it lead south.  
Around noon the forest dropped away to reveal the shore, and the road started curling east alongside the ocean. They stayed on it until they saw the first outlines of roofs and smoking chimneys.

 

Walking towards the town line is like re-entering civilization. Such as it is.  
Killian looks at Emma and grins.  
“Much as it pains me to utter anything even approaching criticism as regards to your appearance, I think a haberdashery should be our first stop,” he says.  
Emma smirks. “Are you telling me I’m filthy after only a week of sleeping in the woods?”  
“I would never go as far as that. I am merely pointing out that your dress has seen better days. Back when you had regular access to water.” His eyebrows dance as he says it, and he runs his hand down her arm.

Two more things Emma has learned in the past few days:  
That Killian likes to stay in contact with her. Almost like he needs tangible, regular, physical connection. For someone who has never liked to be touched, she enjoys these little bonding moments immensely.  
And also that Killian can be wickedly funny.  


“There is a flaw in your grand plan,” she smiles. “We have no money.”  
Killian laughs out loud.  
“Emma,” he says, while his eyebrows do some truly impressive acrobatics. “You don’t honestly think I go _anywhere_ without sufficient funds?”  
Emma stops dead in her tracks. She can feel her jaw drop.  
“You had money? All this time, while we were slogging through hell and damnation - you had coin? We trudged through all this—” she waves her arm in the general direction of the forest— ”when we could have hired a wagon? Paid for a ride?”

__

He sighs, turning back to where she’s still rooted to the spot, and his playfulness vanishes.  
“Love,” his eyes hold hers, “during the course of my rather colorful career, I have encountered many a circumstance during which I did not want to be located. And I have found that the best way to achieve that goal is to not be where people look for me.”  
Again his hand comes up, cups her shoulder.  
“The best way to disappear and stay that way for a long time, is to take all potential witnesses out of the equation for as far a distance as you can manage. Anyone could have happened to look out a window, or a door, or the top of a cart, and recognized you, noticed you walking, or worse – hitching a ride. These are the memories most easily loosened by money, even long after the fact. A coin in the right hands will eventually yield the direction you went.”  
Emma nods, stricken.  
She did not think of any of these possibilities. Thought the cover of night was sufficient.  
She imagines Mersalis springing silver in every town in a ten-mile radius around their village, and realizes she would have left a trail as wide as the King’s Road without even noticing.  
She would have been caught and brought back and punished.  
She might have paid for her brief burst of freedom with her life.

“Buck up,” Killian goes on, running his thumb down her clavicle, light and feathery, like a whisper across her skin. “There is no reason for you to have known any of this. It is your first escape after all.”  
He smiles. “I had to learn most of these lessons the hard way myself. No one drops from the stars just knowing these things. And why should you not benefit from my expertise for a change? Since you have already done some rather significant deeds yourself. Such as saving my life. Twice.”  
Emma bites her lip.  
She can’t help the feeling of inadequacy, of having nothing useful to contribute to their journey. Nothing useful at all. Because she cannot take credit for saving his life. She cannot take credit for an accident and pure, dumb luck.  
Killian looks at her in earnest now, his eyes serious and imploring. And very, very blue.  
“Love,” he says, “you are not lacking, nor deficient, nor weak. You are not found wanting. Believe me when I tell you that not many could have survived your life, not without exorbitant damage to themselves, not without contaminating, without _corrupting_ their souls. Do not judge yourself on matters which have no bearing on your worth.”  
He says it with such fervor, such conviction.  
He means every word.  
And so Emma decides to believe him.

 

They enter the town and Killian pulls her aside next to the first store window which features clothes. He takes off his right boot and pulls what looks to be a looped leather clasp at its top. From between the outer layer and the lining tumble several coins, all of them gold.  
“That’s quite the fortune,” Emma can’t help but say. It’s more money than she has ever seen in one place. In her life.  
“I’m quite the pirate.” Killian winks at Emma and hands her a coin.  
“There you go, love,” he grins. “Now go and get enough garments to last a journey across an ocean. While I go see about a boat.”  
He points across the street to a sign which reads 'King’s Harbor Inn'. It's a posh-looking place, with a red awning and two liveried door men. “We’ll meet there when you’re done.”  
“Isn’t this a little above our station?” Emma tries not to squirm, but it is not easy.  
Killian bends close to her and whispers in her ear. “There is no station above you, love. Remember that. And no one searching for you will ever assume to look for you there.”

 

That night – after Emma trades her dress for breeches and her corset for a vest; after they each have a bath; after they eat a good meal – finds them lying on the bed, facing each other.  
Emma’s expression is somber. When she finally breaks the silence, her voice is quiet. “Thank you.”  
Killian wants to respond.  
Wants to say something witty, something clever, something to mitigate the weight of her gratitude.  
He finds he is the one lacking, in the face of her honesty.  
In the face of her.

He cannot bring himself to invalidate her sentiment, to cheapen it with a quip. So he remains silent, reaches up and takes her hand, and that’s how Emma falls asleep. Holding his hand.  
Killian watches her face relax and her eyelids start to flutter.  
He listens to her deep, relaxed breaths for a very long time.

“You and me, love,” he finally whispers. “You and me. Until the end of time.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i finally got them out of the woods. Yay. And i finally wrote some Happy!  
> i hope it wasn't too boring.  
> If it helps - trouble is *definitely* heading their way.  
> :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot stress this enough: i know nothing about boats.  
> NOTHING.  
> (i think they float because water displacement is a thing, and i know some of them have sails and some have oars and some have engines. And that is the extent of my knowlege on the subject. Every last ounce of it.)
> 
> So - every term and description i used in this chapter i had to research first. Which means that each and every mistake i made is mine, and mine alone. It is also a large part of the reason why this took So. Freakin'. Long.  
> i would kindly ask you to forgive me for both.  
> :)

Emma wakes up surrounded by Killian.  
It is strange and peculiar and wonderful and unnerving and so, so comfortable.  
So, so different from that cot at the cabin.  
In the woods there had been limited space no matter where they battened down for the night. Closeness had been unavoidable. Here, they share a bed – but this bed is spacious. Two people can easily sleep on it without ever coming in contact.  
And yet.  
Killian is asleep behind her, pressed along the length of her body, his nose buried at the back of her neck and his arm heavy across her middle.

Emma’s instincts kick in hard, and her first one is flight and her second is fight and she struggles for a moment to rein herself in. To sink back into the moment, into this feeling of contentment and ease and, yes – shelter.  
She knows that she let her guard down days ago. Her defenses had been of no use against Killian; he had snuck his way past them that very first night, when he had asked whether she was in pain.  
And used the word ‘love’. To refer to her.  
But waking up is a different matter, and for days now Emma has come out of sleep ready for battle. She takes a deep breath and puts her hand on his, where it’s splayed across her belly. 

“Stop thinking so loudly this early in the morning,” comes a sleepy voice behind her. His breath puffs across her skin. It tickles, and she giggles. When was the last time Emma giggled? Has she ever? She moves her head a fraction in his direction.  
“You cannot possibly hear me think.” She counters.  
“I can feel you tense up, love.” He says, and pulls her closer to him. “As a waking method it is nearly as good as a bucket of ice water.”  
Emma snorts. “I might just test this theory one day. Have a proper comparison.”  
Killian smacks a wet kiss to her neck and says, “do not dare!”, and then everything goes quiet as he realizes what he has done. He is still as a statue. Frozen. And utterly silent.

Emma turns in his arms.  
He looks stricken and it occurs to her that he is afraid. Of her.  
_Of her._  
How can this man, who walks cheerfully into danger, who makes her laugh, makes her _giggle_ , who lies on his deathbed and still reassures her, still be so very unsure of himself? So uncertain about her?  
What has she done?

So Emma stops fighting.  
She leans forward and presses her lips to his. And it is just as lovely as it was the first time.  
It becomes more lovely when he starts to kiss back.

 

“We really have to get up, love,” he says eventually. Emma has lost all track of time.  
“I suppose so.” She is wary of breaking this newfound peace between them. This tranquility inside her. But life marches on, and she has to march with it. They are not out of danger, yet.  
“Did you find us a boat?”  
Killian grins, and it looks different than before. He looks happy, she realizes. Truly happy.  
“You are a dreadful influence on me, love,” he says. “I did indeed find us a boat. And I _paid_ for it.” He looks like the word tastes absolutely repulsive.  
Emma laughs out loud. “You bought us a boat? Are you not supposed to have a healthy disregard for all the laws in all the lands?”  
“Like I said, love. You are an atrocious role model. You’ll have me walking on the straight and narrow next.”  
“Let’s not be hasty,” Emma cannot stop smiling. “I would not want you to change too much.”  
It is remarkable how quickly he can switch back to sincerity.  
“Do you mean that?” He asks, and it is not in jest.  
She runs her finger down his cheek, chases the vanishing smile. This answer she can give him with utter conviction.  
“Yes. I do.”  
His answering smile blots out the sun.

 

An hour and a large breakfast later they are standing at the pier, looking at a vessel which to Emma’s untrained eye looks questionably seaworthy. It has one mast and two rolled-up sails which look patched in places. Many, many places. It also looks small and vulnerable, even moored in its slip. Like their combined weight could sink it. Like anything stronger than a light breeze could capsize it.

“Hop in,” Killian says behind her.

Emma has bound her hair back and tied a scarf around it, and she is wearing her cloak, buttoned up to the neck. While this goes a long way towards camouflaging her actual appearance, it is singularly cumbersome when trying to move. Especially when said move is a hop.  
She gives Killian a long look which conveys in no uncertain terms that she is not amused, and then steps off the quay and more or less falls into the boat. Not quite managing to remain upright.  
Rather falling squat on her behind.  
Killian has the very good sense not to laugh out loud.

He enters the boat after her as if he was walking out of a front door, and Emma glowers and decides to remain seated.  
A subtle change comes over Killian the moment he gets on board. He is now in his true element. A bird finally taking flight, a seal finally diving back into the ocean after having crawled on land for far too long.  
He explains the headsail and the mainsail and port and starboard and tacking and jibing and a dozen other things. Emma tries to pay attention, but he’s a dervish, pulling ropes and tying off cleats and somehow everywhere at once; and it’s all she can do to stay out of his way.  
He curses often, vehemently; keeps shaking his left hand. Does awkward reach-arounds with his right. Emma bites her lip trying to imagine how hard it must be for him to adjust a lifetime’s worth of muscle memory to a dysfunctional limb. She wants to offer her help, but does not know how to ask.  
So she remains silent, letting him grunt and toil and use all the profanity he wants. She learns several new expressions.

Within minutes the pier is vanishing into the distance behind them and the prow plows the water with speed. Killian sits down, holding the tiller and looking like he and the boat are two parts of a whole.  
“Stop biting your lip,” he calls out to her. “If we hit some chop you’ll bite it clean through.”  
Emma relaxes her mouth immediately.  
“And come up here.” He holds out his hand, motions to the empty space beside him. “Just watch the boom.”  
Emma huffs. “I don’t know what that is.”  
Killian smiles his first smile since leaving the harbor. “This pesky piece of wood right here. Attached to the mainsail.” And he pats the horizontal beam pointing slightly off to his left. 

Emma gets up carefully and takes three wobbling steps towards him, does the least graceful turn in the history of rotation and comes down next to him with a thump. Killian pulls her against him with his left arm while his right remains steady on the tiller.  
“You get a much better view from up here.” His eyebrows dance. His smile is hopeful and unguarded. His eyes shine, bright and happy. Emma could not agree more.  
This is the best view. Anywhere.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The drawer splinters as Mersalis hurls it at the wall, and he looks around the detritus of what was once his hovel.  
He has torn the place apart.  
He has looked in every wall space, every cupboard, every wardrobe niche, nook and cranny -- and found nothing to help him locate his missing wife.  
Nothing.  
Emma came into his life with naught but the clothes on her back, and she has not accumulated any possessions of note since. None which are truly hers. Enough hers for a locator spell.  
There are baskets she wove and a few clothes left behind, but none of these even twitch when given a drop of his phial. 

Mersalis is seething. 

He wipes sweat from his brow. Kicks the door of the sideboard shut with enough force to nearly take it off its hinges. His back aches, his shoulders are sore, and there is a dull pounding at the base of his skull.  
He is breathing too hard, and he huffs in frustration.  
He reviles this lumbering body he has been cursed into, this shell without magic.  
This lock to which Emma was supposed to be the key.

 

He had sensed it the moment he'd set eyes on her: The undercurrent of dormant magic.  
It had been weak and thready, the beat of her power; a pulse barely fluttering. A hairline seam of gold under a mountain of bedrock. A forbidden fruit, a vein untapped – hidden so deeply that the girl herself was unaware of it. But unmistakably there.  
To him it had sounded like a siren's call. Here was power, here was magic; unspoiled, ready for the taking in all its pure shining glory, for him to reap and twist and wield until it ripped away his curse.  
Releasing his true self from its shackles.  
His true and rightful self which had been straining, struggling, suppressed under the yoke of Mersalis for all these long years.  
Releasing Pan.

Oh, the reckoning he would bring.  
The revenge he would take on both foes and enemies.  
On each and every single person who had contributed to his demise.  
Profited from it.  
And the most exquisite punishment he would save up for the one who had caught him, the one who had cursed him, and left him to fate. Her punishment would be a monument to his cruelty, his rage, and the ultimate reversal of his defeat: _Never. Ending._

He had been close enough to taste it.

All he had had to do was dredge up Emma's power from the abyss of her ocean, bring it up to the surface, and then harvest it all. And magic that hidden required coercion, an essential need in order to rise.  
There is no need more essential than the one for self-preservation.  
The will to live is a powerful thing.

So Mersalis had gotten to work. Plucked her from her home, stripped her of her friends and her family and most of her dignity in one fell swoop.  
Cut her off from the world.  
And let his savage side come out to play. 

He had started off slowly, just teasing her magic – small acts of cruelty, minor abuse. Always unpredictable, never within reason; designed to take her off balance. He had increased slowly in both damage and malevolence; twisting and bowing and bending her body and her spirit towards the breaking point.  
He had tortured Emma for weeks. For months.  
It had yielded absolutely nothing.  
No amount of punishment, of cruelty, of devastation had broken her, had made her magic come forth.

 

And now she is gone, with nothing left behind.

Mersalis punches the wall.  
His hand screams in protest.  
Pain lances all the way up to his shoulder and he doubles over, tries to breathe through the agony.  
Then his eye catches on something lodged in the crack of a floorboard, and he smiles a smile so cruel, it looks out of place even on a face as vicious as his.  
Stuck at his feet is her wedding ring.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

They drop anchor long after the moon has risen.  
Killian ties off the tiller and settles himself and Emma into the bottom of the boat, leaned against the port side, huddled together beneath her cloak. 

“Emma,” he says, and somehow the word has more weight than their anchor. “Emma, I have to tell you something.”  
Emma looks up. Killian looks tired, and worn, and apprehensive. He quirks a wan smile, but his eyes wander off to the dark horizon. He can’t look at her. Emma resists the temptation to speculate about his change of mood, or the topic he is trying to broach. She nods at him, and then simply waits.  
Killian remains silent for a long time.  
When he finally speaks, his voice is subdued.

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this, love. But I can’t just let you…” His voice drifts off. He tries again.  
“Emma, the way I am with you is a version of me the way I used to be, before the Navy. Before I became a pirate. The way I would love to see myself now.”  
He takes a deep breath.  
“But in reality I have become a different man on the decks of the ships which have steered my course. I am a different man altogether.” He raises a hand, runs it through his hair. It looks helpless.  
“I am selfish. I am callous. I am a survivor only because I am single-minded in my predilection for self-preservation. As I have said before, I am a villain.” He is quiet for another moment.  
“I don’t know how you managed to bring out my former self. There might be more than one kind of magic that runs through your veins.” He laughs a small laugh, wistful, unsure. “But tomorrow we will reach Tempest Falls, and with any luck the Jolly will be docked in its harbor. And I don’t know who I will be once we board her.”  
He looks at her for the briefest of seconds before his eyes flick back to the dark, dark waters.  
“I may very well become the pirate instead of the man. I just wanted you to know.”

Emma looks at him.  
She realizes that she knows that this may very well happen, that she has always known that it was a likely turn of events. That this perfect bubble they have been living in, this path which was theirs alone to forge, might not lead any further than the deck of his ship.  
What surprises her is the realization that she does not mind.  
That she would do everything exactly the same way again, even if she knew for sure that the outcome was not going to be in her favor. 

“Killian.” It’s the first time she says his name since that day at the cabin. “Killian, look at me.”  
He has to force his eyes away from the sea and towards hers. They are blank now, large and empty.  
He is looking at her, but he does not see her.  
“Killian, do you remember the promise you made me? Before we started this journey?”  
He nods like his head is not part of him.  
“That is the only promise you made me, and it is the only promise to which I will hold you.” She says it with sincerity, with ardor. “You do not owe me any more than that.”  
Killian blinks. Slowly.  
“So whatever happens, you tell me when you come to the end of the line. You do not drag me along like a wooden limb. You do not let me become a source of anger and frustration and misplaced obligation. You owe me nothing except to let me go when your journey with me ends.”

His arms come around her like bands of iron, and he buries his face in the back of her neck.  
Emma’s cheek is pressed to his chest, and she can hear his galloping heartbeat.  
The rough intake of breath.  
When he finally speaks, his voice is uneven, but sure. “Aye, love, I did promise you that. And no matter what comes, I will keep it.”

 

 

They reach Tempest Falls the next afternoon. The Windshear Islands did not get their name for nothing, but today the weather is pleasant and the breeze light. They have no trouble sailing into the harbor and finding a mooring.  
Their mood is subdued, but not strained; and Killian is still tactile. But the aspect of his small touches has changed – there is a desperate quality to them now. As if he is unsure how long he will still be allowed this way of staying in contact with her. As if he has to burn the feel of Emma into his memory before it all goes away. Emma surprises herself again with how little concerned she is about the future. Since there is nothing to do but wait and find out, she is free to enjoy the present moments.  
She feels neither fear nor apprehension. Whatever may come, she does not want to waste any of this here and now. She tries to convey this to Killian by smiling at him. Often.  
Most of the time he smiles back.

They tie off the boat in an empty slip. Killian shoulders their pack and lifts Emma out onto the pier.  
And then several things happen simultaneously.

While he is telling her that they have to go see the harbor master about the Jolly, he sees Emma come to a dead stop  
_While she is listening to Killian talk about the Jolly she notices a figure at the end of the pier_  
Killian turns to Emma whose face has gone whiter than chalk  
_and Emma notices a shadow to her right and feels a hand close around her wrist, a hand that shimmers with strange flecks of gold_  
and then Killian notices a dark, menacing figure walking towards them  
and they both hear a voice, calm and collected and filled to the brim with cruel satisfaction say, “hello, _wife_.”

And then the strange golden hand around Emma’s wrist tightens  
and purple smoke erupts at her feet  
and Killian hurls himself at her, wraps his arms around her, and they fall to the ground  
but there is no more ground  
the pier itself has vanished  
and then Emma is _ripped from –_

 

Silence reigns as the last wisps of smoke dissipate.  
Leaving nothing but dumbfounded spectators, staring blankly at the empty space where four people had stood just a moment ago.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at All. This. Fluff?  
> i hope you enjoyed this, because there are dark days ahead. Ish.


	7. Chapter 7

In the darkness Killian has a moment to realize.  
That when danger came he chose Emma. Not himself, Emma.  
_YouAndMeLoveUntilTheEndOfTime._

And then he finds himself lying facedown with his nose pressed against a cold stone floor.  
He plays dead, or at least unconscious; not moving, just listening.  
„There you are, dearie.” It's a voice he does not know; mocking, with an undercurrent of malevolence. „You finally got your heart's desire. Whatever will you do with her now?”  
„You know exactly what I want,” comes the second voice, and Killian recognizes it immediately, even though he has only heard it through floorboards and a cracked window. This is Mersalis, and he has found them. Killian curses inwardly as the voice goes on. „Release her magic. Undo my curse.”  
The first voice laughs. „And you need my help?”  
„It appears that I do.”  
„I thought so, dearie. But remember that all magic comes with a price.”  
„I have your dagger.”  
„I wasn't referring to myself at this very moment. When I say _all_ magic has a price, I mean hers does as well. Are you willing to pay it?”  
„Yes, I am,” Mersalis growls, „you know I am willing to pay any price. Even hers. Even yours.”  
The first voice laughs again, and it is all the wrong shades of joyful.  
„Excellent, dearie.” The next part is a whisper. „And make no mistake, before this is done you will owe me as well. I will name a price and you will pay it in full.”  
Mersalis' voice comes again, and it sounds like he has turned towards Killian. „Can we decide what to do with this hanger-on first?”  
„Leave him be for now,” the first voice comes again. „He was both brave and stupid enough to hold on to your bird when we caught her. He might become a neat bargaining chip.”

Fear runs down Killian's spine like a long freezing finger. He wills his breathing not to hitch, but it is a near thing. Then he realizes that he has not heard Emma speak at all, not one sound; and it amplifies his fear. He very nearly moves at that, the urge to jump up and start swinging his sword overwhelming. But he knows at least one of these men has magic enough to whisk four people through space as if the laws of nature meant nothing to him. This is not an opportune moment for him to sacrifice his only advantage.

„Fine.” Mersalis says, further away. He has turned his back on Killian again. „Then let's get started.”  
„Nah-ah-ahhh!” If Killian never hears that first voice's amusement again, it will be too soon. „First we agree on a price for my help.”  
„No.” Mersalis' reply is a growl. „First we see whether I need your help at all.”  
Killian's blood turns to ice in his veins.  
„By all means, dearie, let's give your crude methods one more try. After all, they worked so well before.”  
„Can you wake her up, or is that going to cost me?”  
„That I think I can give you for free.”

Both voices have now turned away from Killian. He carefully lifts his head, sees two pairs of boots a few feet away. He hears a gasp and a choked _„wha..”_ which is unmistakably Emma. And then comes the sound of a knife being unsheathed.  
Caution flies out the window.  
He jumps up with a scream, his right hand grabs his sword hilt, and he is arrested in mid-air, rendered immobile. And then slammed against a wall. Vines crawl around his arms and legs, holding him fast several feet off the ground. Emma hangs next to him, held in place the same way, her eyes shocked and confused.  
„So nice of you to join us.” The owner of the first voice is a small man dressed in brown leather. Strange gold-green flecks cover his skin, give him an odd sparkle. They are in a large, broken-down hall, cold and crumbling in many places. What must once have been a throne is at the far end; a ruined stump remains of formerly impressive carved stone. Next to the golden creature stands the hulking shape of the man he saw at the end of the pier. So this is Mersalis.

Killian tries to pull his arms free. They don't move an inch. Instead he can feel the vines tightening, slicing through the fabric of his tunic like a knife through warm butter. Cutting into his skin.  
„Killian, stop.” Emma's voice is a whisper, but he can hear it clearly, even through the roaring in his ears. „Please, Killian. _Stop_.”  
He halts his efforts, feels warm blood start to drip down his arms. He looks at Emma, holds her gaze, helpless. There are tears in her eyes, but her smile is soft. And just for him.

„Awwwww,” comes the mocking voice of the gold-flecked man before them. „So sweet and so useless, this blossoming love.”  
Emma's eyes grow large and round and Killian feels his own do the same. But before either of them can speak, Mersalis' voice breaks the moment, impatient.  
„Oh stars above, I am so tired of your games.” He steps forward, a knife in his hand, and starts to run it up Emma's torso, where it shows unprotected between the vines. It leaves a thin trail of red in its wake.

Emma tries not to struggle, but she cannot help it;  
and the vines tighten around her, do more damage than the blade;  
and Killian has to watch blood well through dozens of cuts, on her arms, on her legs, on her neck,  
_on her neck;_  
and the golden man smiles a smile of pure satisfaction;  
and Killian screams, screams for Emma to _stay still_ ;  
and Mersalis' licks his lips, leans forward in eager anticipation;  
but nothing happens.

There is no golden light to burst forth and save them.

Mersalis' brows draw together in rage, and he presses harder, and the vines cut deeper, and Killian's screams grow hoarse, and Emma's struggle grows weaker, and blood keeps welling, keeps dripping, keeps running -  
and suddenly a new voice calls out, „ENOUGH!”

Everything stops.

From the middle of the room, a figure walks towards them.  
It has the shape of a woman, but nothing about her looks human at all.  
With a flick of her wrist, Mersalis' knife clatters to the ground, and he is thrown against the wall on the other side of Killian, vines now wrapping around him as well.  
The golden man stares with his mouth hanging open.  
The woman smiles. It is terrifying.

„Imbecile,” she says in the direction of Mersalis.  
„And you,” she rounds on the golden man, „I expected more cunning from you, _Dark One.”_  
She says 'Dark One' as if there were no greater insult in the realm. The man's mouth moves, but no sound comes forth. Then she looks up at Killian and Emma. Her gaze alone cuts him down to the core. She smiles her dreadful smile again.  
„Let me introduce myself properly,” she says lightly, as if they were sitting around a dinner table. „My name is Fiona, and I am a fairy.” She laughs. „As a matter of fact, I am _the_ fairy.”

Killian has heard about fairies, of course he has. Tiny, candy-colored fae wisps who roam the dreams of wide-eyed girls and meddle in love lives.  
That is not who this is.  
This fairy wears black.  
She is formidable in her bearing, terrible in her beauty.  
He looks at Emma and sees no surprise register on her face. She looks like she is utterly overwhelmed. She just stares without seeing.

„Now,” says the fairy, „let's see what we have here.”  
She gives a mock bow in the direction of Emma and Killian. „You must be so confused by all this.”  
Her voice is smoother than silk. „Let me introduce the players before I tell you what parts you will play.”  
She motions to Mersalis. „This is a misguided Lost Boy named Peter Pan. Currently cursed into the body of a mere mortal of my own choosing. Desparately trying to reclaim his true self. And under the impression that you can help him in his quest, Emma.” She smiles, bright and cheerful. It chills Killian's bones right down to the marrow.  
„He saw that Emma has magic, buried down deep.” Her voice becomes a conspiratorial whisper. „He thought he could release it through cruelty and fear. But he could not, and for that there is good reason.”  
Her voice changes again, becomes mocking and acerbic. „Before I come to you, Emma, let me explain that this creature next to me,“ she points at the golden one, „was once a man called Rumplestiltskin. He sold his soul in exchange for magic, and now roams the lands as the Dark One – infinitely powerful, but tied in his fate to the will of a dagger.“  
She twists her hand and a jagged dagger appears in it. Mersalis spits out a curse and she looks at him with cold amusement. „In the pocket of your _cloak_ , Pan? That's not where you keep a weapon like this. Not if you want to continue to keep it.”  
Killian sees that the eyes of the creature she called the Dark One are riveted to the dagger.  
The Black Fairy addresses the Dark One in turn. „Oh Rumple,” she says. „I know what you want. And you cannot have it.”  
She turns back to the three people hanging on the wall. „In a former life,” she points at Rumplestiltskin, „he was also my son. And I was his mother. But that is not important today.”  
The Dark One frowns, but remains frozen in place. His lack of movement is not voluntary. The Black Fairy has immobilized him as well.  
„So you see, Emma,” the Black Fairy goes on, „you are just one small part of the reason we find ourselves here now.”

„What do you want?”  
Emma's voice sounds strange to Killian's ears. Detached somehow, much too neutral. As if she was inquiring about the weather.  
„What do I want.” The fairy hums to herself. „What indeed.”  
She looks up and smiles her terrifying smile. „Pan's wellspring, of course.”  
Next to Killian Pan's entire body spasms with rage, and he gasps as the vines tighten around his limbs.  
„That's what all of this is about?” he grinds out between teeth clenched in pain, „Neverland _water?”_  
The Black Fairy laughs. „It is not merely water, and you know it.”  
„You did this to me because of a spring? _Because of a spring?_ I will kill you where you stand once I get my hands on you, kill you and bring you back and kill you _again_ , until you---“  
„Hush,” says the fairy and puts her finger to her lips. Pan's rant is cut off like a clipped string. „You talk too much.”  
She smiles again, pauses for a moment. Just enjoying herself.  
Killian looks at Emma who looks pale and strained and his heart constricts. He thinks of the morning at the King's Harbor Inn, both of them interlocked like puzzle pieces. They should have stayed in that bed. Forever.

But the Black Fairy presses on, relentless. „Now, Emma. I'm sure you are wondering just what you are doing here. Pan,” she points again, „thought your magic could release him from his cursed form, Mersalis. And it could have, had he not looked for it in all the wrong places.”  
She laughs again. It does not become less terrifying, no matter how often Killian hears it. Then she takes a step towards Emma. „I watched him take you and torture you as if that was enough. But it was never going to work.” Her voice drops to a whisper, sibilant as a snake's. „Because I gave you armor. Or rather, because I took your weakness away.”  
She twists her hand again, and in its palm a heart appears.  
Red and glowing and beautiful.

Emma gasps, and in Killian's mind so many things fall into place.  
How calm Emma was when she told him her story.  
How empty her laugh when she talked about the worst.  
How serene she remained on the boat, when his fears overwhelmed him and he told her that when push came to shove he might not choose her.  
How very detached she seems to be now.

„It was a test, of course.” The fairy continues. „I had to find out if your magic was strong enough. If it had enough power to rise to the surface despite you missing its key component.” She lifts the hand holding Emma's heart up for all to see. Killian is mesmerized by the golden light pulsing inside it.  
„And it turns out it was, just not for yourself.” She turns to Killian. „Which brings us to you.”  
The night at the cabin comes back to Killian in perfect clarity. The memory is so sharp he can taste Emma's fear. She had been afraid then. Afraid for him. Right before her magic erupted.  
„Who would have thought a _pirate_ would turn out to be the key to this heart?”  
Killian looks at the Black Fairy and rage such as he has never felt wells up in his veins.  
_You did this to her._ The thought pulses through his skull. _I will get you for this, if it takes the rest of my life._  
„Look at you in your righteous anger,” the Black Fairy hums, grinning at Killian. „It's delicious. Now watch closely what happens when I do this.”  
And with those words she slams Emma's heart back into her chest.

Emma screams.

And screams and screams and screams and screams, until Killian feels like his ears are bleeding, until their echoes fill the hall and make it tremble, until chunks of rock start to fall from the ceiling---  
and then something erupts to his left, where Emma was hanging a moment ago  
and the vines release him and he slides to the ground  
and golden light forms a bubble around him and Emma, Emma who stands there, next to him, panting,  
white as a sheet, but no longer screaming  
and blue light erupts from the Black Fairy's hand, shoots towards them and collides with Emma's golden sphere--  
and both explode in a flash and a bang that shatters the throne at the end of the hall.

The Black Fairy looks both irritated and shocked, but Killian spares her no notice. His eyes are glued to Emma.  
Emma who is still panting, doubled over, but slowly and surely straightening up.  
She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.  
She has never looked this magnificent.  
It's as if he had been looking at a shadow of her true self this entire time, and now, finally gets to see the real thing. She is breathtaking.  
Formidable and beautiful and so very _alive.  
_ Killian knows in this very moment that when push comes to shove he will never choose anything else but her.

„So let me get this straight,” Emma says, and even her voice sounds different. Clear and powerful and sure, so sure. Golden light sparks between her fingers. „You let me be taken by this, this _thing_.” She points at Mersalis and the vines tighten, cut into his skin. He cries out in pain. „You let me suffer and hurt because _you_ need my magic.”  
Killian can see that the Black Fairy now seems to be frozen in place. She has not moved a muscle.  
Emma smiles. „But this is not going the way you planned, is it?”  
She flicks her hand and now both the Black Fairy and Rumplestiltskin fly up against the wall. The vines wrap around them. They tighten immediately, cut through all clothing, and red wells up across three necks.

Emma looks at Killian. In her eyes is a question.

„Don't kill them,” he hears himself say. „Don't put that kind of weight on your soul.”  
His hand comes up to cup her cheek. Her eyes grow soft. He can feel her smile sink into his heart.  
„Don't do it, love.” He whispers, holding her gaze. „Let me do it for you.”  
He grips his sword, but Emma stays his hand.  
„No,” she says gently. „I won't let you do it. You have enough weight to carry yourself.”  
She turns back to the three figures on the wall. The vines keep spreading, keep twisting around them.  
“You,” the Black Fairy spits from between clenched teeth, “you insignificant little fool. I will make sure there is nothing left of you when I am done. I will strip you of your powers. I will not stop until you are naught but a pile of dust and misery. Not even a shell for your pirate to---”  
“Hush,” Emma says, and puts her finger to her lips. “You talk too much.”  
Golden light once again shoots from Emma’s hands and when it hits the Black Fairy it starts to burn blue. It's a battle of color and light until the blue erupts in a flash and the Black Fairy wilts, hanging in the vines like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Her face now looks lined and her eyes tired and – normal. The terrible beauty has been wiped away.

„You have done enough damage to last several lifetimes,” Emma says, her voice sharper than a scalpel. „It is time to put an end to all this.”  
She closes her fist and the ceiling starts to crumble.  
Blocks of it fall and pile up against the wall, forming a cairn around the three bound figures.  
The entire structure starts to shake down to its foundation, and the walls start collapsing, and the ceiling is still falling, and Emma's hand reaches for Killian's wrist, and Killian's arms close tightly around Emma, and then there is nothing but blinding white smoke.

 

And then both of their feet hit the deck of a ship.  
Killian looks up, his arms still around Emma.  
They are at sea, surrounded by an endless expanse of water and sky, and he knows these boards like the back of his hand. They are on the quarterdeck of the Jolly. Smee holds the wheel, gapes at them wide-eyed.  
A deckhand drops his bucket with a clatter.  
„Look,” Emma smiles. „I finally got you back to your ship.”  
And faints dead away.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope this didn't veer too far into left field.  
> :)


	8. Chapter 8

Once again Emma wakes up surrounded by Killian. But it is different this time. She is different. She is comfortable, and so, so warm, and she feels… _she feels._  
Everything.  
The rocking motion of the ship, and the sun on her face, and Killian's breath across her neck, and his hand on her chest, splayed over her heart, beating.  
Her heart. Beating. 

How had she not noticed it had been missing?  
Emma’s mind wanders back to her time with Mersalis. Over all the pain and misery and dejection and agony.  
All those times of despair, of desperation, and still she never got to the end of her tether. Never found the end of her rope.  
All those times she had wanted to leave – money and long odds be damned. And then didn’t.  
More paralyzed inside her apathy than ever she was inside her fear.  
Oh, she should have known.  
She should have known. 

Killian is stretched out down the length of her side. When she turns, she finds him watching her, eyes wide open. As if he could read her thoughts like an open book. He is right there, _with_ her, and the look in his eyes makes her want to cry.  
She smiles a watery smile instead, and then realizes: He looks exhausted.  
There are purple shadows under his eyes, and his scruff has turned into a definite beard, and he is so, so pale. Worn out. Drained. Spent.  
She cups his cheek. “Killian? Have you slept at all?”  
“Aye, love. A little.” Even his voice is tired, and thin.  
“How long have I been asleep?”  
He sighs. From the bottom of his heart. “The longest two days of my life, love.”  
His hand moves from her chest and starts rubbing her arm. “I am happy to see you awake again.” There is a hitch in his voice.  
Emma can feel it.  
Can feel the slight tremor in his hand as it brushes her arm; the fatigue in his eyes as he watches her face, tired, but glad. The warmth of his side when she lays her hand on his hip. The way his breath starts to stutter when she does.  
Her world has finally come back into color, after months and months of nothing but grey.

Emma realizes that there are questions to be answered and events to be examined and explanations to be attempted and many, many things to be discussed, but she also realizes that she does not want to talk.  
At all.

She wants to _feel_.

She lets her hand wander along Killian's side and push up his tunic. Her fingers connect with his bare skin. It ignites a fire, and it roars through her veins, lighting a path, until every single nerve in her body has sparked to life.  
She leans forward and kisses him, and stars above, it is so different from anything that came before.  
It explodes into her with _so much_ emotion.  
Killian groans and fists his hand into her hair, and then kisses her back like he's dying of thirst and she is a wellspring. Their mouths open for each other and for a few long moments there is nothing but taste. And then Emma pushes Killian onto his back and straddles him.  
Her hands push up fabric, exposing more skin, and she cannot stop touching him.  
Killian pants, runs his hands up her back, and she takes off her shirt in one swift motion.  
His eyes grow wide and very, very dark.

“Emma.” He whispers. And can't seem to go on.  
She slides her hand down until she feels the hard length of him through his trousers. The sound Killian makes is half moan and half growl, and Emma smiles. “Killian.”  
He is looking at her like she is the only thing worth looking at in all of creation. Her heart is racing and she loves the feel of it. The feel of everything.  
_Everything_.

She leans forward and kisses him, savage and reckless, and his response is relentless. Ferocious. Hungry.  
“Killian, please, I need...” She doesn't know how to say it, doesn't know how to ask.  
And Killian nods. Swallows hard. Looks up at her, his eyes filled with something she cannot name. Will not name. But she wants.  
Oh, she wants.  
In the space of a second he flips them around, still looking at her, with that look, _that look_ ; of promise, of resolve, and that damn tenderness.  
Emma grits her teeth, looks straight back at him, and lets herself fall.  
He divests them of all clothing in a matter of moments, and then reaches down to where she's aching,  
_aching_  
and when he slides into her it's like coming home.

 

 

“I have to tell you something, love.”  
They lie facing each other, fingertips lazily running across warm skin. Emma has heard of bliss, but never known what it was until today. Killian looks at her with impossibly soft eyes, and she feels – whole. And happy. And wonderful. She smiles and waits for him to go on.  
“I will never have to keep that promise I made, love. Because I am never going to let you go.”  
He's still looking at her, his blue eyes unblinking. “It's you and me, love,” he whispers, and it sounds like an oath. “You and me, until the end of time.”

Deep inside Emma a cold, dark abyss starts to fill up with warmth.

“Good,” she says, and then runs out of words. Because there are no words big enough, vast enough, meaningful enough to express what it means to her to hear him say that.  
This is unknown territory. She knows not where she is, nor where she is going.  
But he is here, with her.  
Wants to stay here, with her.  
On this path she does not know, in this space with no map.  
With her.

She can feel tears well up in her eyes, but he does not tell her not to cry. Just leans forward and kisses her, gently.  
“It may be dangerous,” she says. “I don't know what this magic will do inside me. I don't know how I did what I did in that hall.”  
He grins. “You saved us, love. Saved my life. Again.”

Emma holds up her hand and tries to concentrate. To tap back into that current of power. A few tiny golden sparks light up and fizzle out immediately.  
“I really don't know how I did... what it was that I did,” she says, puzzled. “All I know is that when the Black Fairy restored my heart, something inside me just locked into place.”  
She looks up at Killian. He waits, quietly rubbing his thumb over her cheek. He hasn't stopped touching her, not for a moment. Emma tries again.  
“At first, it was like blood rushing back into a limb that's been asleep, but a thousand times worse. Just... feeling after being numb for so long – I thought I would shatter. It felt like my mind was coming undone.”  
“You screamed,” he whispers, “you screamed and screamed and I was helpless before it.” His eyes grow distant with the memory and she puts her hand on his hip, anchoring him.  
“There was nothing you could have done,” she says. “Nothing at all.”  
She smiles. “And then suddenly there was this-- torrent of energy. Like a flood gate had opened, and from it poured _power_.” She shudders. “I did not know what it was, but I knew how to wield it. Right there, in those moments, it did what I asked.”  
“You were bloody brilliant. It was like watching vengeance itself.”  
Emma laughs. High-pitched and unsteady. Killian's hand moves to the back of her neck, buries into her hair. He pulls her close slowly, leans his forehead against hers.  
“You were the most glorious creature I'd ever seen,” he says, his voice still a whisper. “You _are_ the most amazing being I have ever known.”  
Emma cannot answer. There are no words. Just the tears in her eyes and a watery smile.

He presses his lips to hers and then pulls back to look at her. “Do you think they will come after us, love?”  
“I think they will try.”  
She smiles, and it is a real smile this time. “But I have magic now, even if I can't wield it at will. Maybe I can learn to master it.”  
“I can help you, love. It does seem to be rather fond of me.”  
Emma smirks. “That it does,” she says. “Don't let it go to your head.”  
Killian grins and his eyebrows dance. “Why on earth not? I am the dashing pirate who was the key to its lock.”  
Emma swats his arm. “Oh please. It could have been anyone with a compass and a basic knowledge of boats.” Killian laughs out loud, gives her a smacking kiss. “Take that back,” he smiles. “You know it was me.”  
Emma knows it's a joke, but she can feel the truth of it resonate deep inside her.  
“Yes I do,” she tells him, and it is not in jest. His eyes grow soft, and her heart grows warm.

And then she remembers. “Killian.” She sits up abruptly and looks around. “Where is my cloak?”  
His eyebrows raise up to his hairline at the question, and he points to one of the chairs at the table. Emma jumps out of bed, snatches the garment and dives back under the covers. She probes the folds of the cloak and pulls out a dagger.

The dagger. 

Killian smiles. “In the pocket of your _cloak_ , Emma?”  
Emma swats his arm again. “I had nothing else at hand. And I was hoping you could help me find a better hiding place.”  
Together they look at the dagger.  
Between its vicious curves are ornately carved letters. _Rumplestiltskin_.  
“I thought this might be a good weapon to have.” Emma takes a deep breath and her voice is now serious. “Killian, I need you to be sure of this.”  
Her eyes are thoughtful, her shoulders set. “Sure of staying with me. Because I think one day they _will_ break from their prison. And come after me.”  
Killian takes her hand, winds his fingers through hers.  
“I'd like to see them try,” he says. “But no matter what happens, you will not be alone.”  
“Are you sure?” She whispers.  
“Aye,” he says, and she has never heard him more certain. “ _It's you and me, love. Until the end of time._ ”  
There is only one thing she can say to that.  
“Then it's you and me, Killian. No matter what happens.”  
His answering smile warms her down to her bones.  
“Good,” he says and gives her a long, slow kiss. Then he pulls back and waggles his eyebrows and Emma laughs. A true, joyful, heartfelt laugh.  
He squeezes her fingers. “Let's get up and get dressed, love. It's time for you to meet my crew.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's where it ends. For now.
> 
> The evil three will very likely dig themselves out of the rubble at some point and cause more trouble, but that's a story for another day. Thank you to all who walked this path with me.
> 
> Meanwhile i can't believe that i wrote my first story.  
> Now i guess i'll have to go and write something else.


End file.
